30th October, London
Late October in London has a particular flavour bracingly cool air, the scent of sodden leaves underfoot and that quiet, sharp nip that promises the first frost. That evening, I was swaddled in my big checked scarf, pacing back and forth at the bus stop, watching the sluggish stream of commuters inch along the wet road. My phone sat idle in my hand, stubbornly refusing to find a signal. In my head, the catchy theme from last nights series would not let up. Of course, Id missed my bus. As usual, I was late.
Someone else was waiting nearby. A bloke, roughly my age. I clocked him in the corner of my eye: hands stuffed in the pockets of his overcoat, upright carriage, eyes alert rather than lost. But he wasnt watching the road instead, he gazed up at a jackdaws nest perched among the bare branches of a sycamore across the pavement. Curiosity got the better of me, and I looked too. The birds were darting about, clutching the last twigs in their claws, shoring up their home before the cold arrived.
Perhaps theyre stuck in traffic too, he said suddenly, voice calm and even, gaze never wavering. And theres always one late jackdaw, isnt there? Holding everyone up.
I couldnt help but snort an unexpected, honest reaction.
She probably loses her beak down the tube every morning, I answered, quick as a flash.
He finally turned, grinned at me a warm, inviting smile. James, he said.
Emily, I replied.
No sign of the bus. But the silence between us was no longer awkward. Instead, it felt companionable, almost comforting. Soon, my bus rumbled into sight; I moved reluctantly towards the door.
Looks like frosts on its way, he called after me.
Yeah, I agreed, stepping on. Tomorrows a definite flask-of-tea day.
The next evening, as if by silent agreement, we met again at the stop. This time, I had a flask of green tea in hand. He handed me a little paper bag with two miniature eclairs tucked inside.
In case of cultural starvation, he explained.
So began our ritual our waiting. We never arranged meetings. Wed simply find each other at the stop at half six, if we were both running late at work. Some nights, the bus would turn up immediately, giving us barely enough time to swap a few words. Other times, wed have a good half-hour for banter about clueless bosses, odd dreams, why pineapple on pizza is a travesty (we agreed), and which songs suit a London autumn best (that one always sparked debate).
One evening, James didnt appear. Nor the next. I caught myself staring at the empty jackdaws nest. It looked so still, hollow. The stop felt oddly lonely.
A week later, now in early November, he returned to his usual spot. He looked drawn, shadows beneath his eyes.
My dads been unwell. Hospital, but hes alright now, thank goodness, he said simply.
We stood shoulder-to-shoulder in quiet solidarity. Then, gently, I took his hand. He flinched but didnt recoil. His fingers were icy cold; I squeezed them in my palm, hoping to offer some warmth.
Come on, I whispered. Lets skip the bus tonight. Lets go for hot chocolate. With extra cream. And two eclairs, just for us.
From then on, things shifted. Instead of only waiting, wed stroll together into a nearby pâtisserie, redolent with vanilla and cinnamon.
At first, our conversation was easy and light. But gradually, our talks deepened, as if putting aside the anxiety of missing the bus had given us both permission to slow down and see each other more clearly.
I soon learnt there was a whole world behind Jamess serene facade. He wasnt just a civil engineer; he designed bridges, and talked about them as if theyd grown life and character.
That bridge over the Greywater, hed narrate, sketching its outline in the window steam, hes ancient and stubborn, hates lorries rattling his frame, forever grumbling. The one at the bypass? Just a youngster. Still learning the ropes.
Id listen, wide-eyed, finding poetry where others saw just concrete and steel. What about the bridge where we first waited? Id ask. Oh, that ones the romantic built for long walks and quiet conversation.
I revealed things too. I wasnt just a blogger. I saw invisible connections everywhere, and as we passed blocks of flats, could conjure up stories.
Catch that? Sorrel soup, coming from the third window. Thats Mrs. Harris. Cooks it every Tuesday. And you can hear someone upstairs practising Für Elise always losing the thread at the same spot.
James, whose world had always been blueprints and numbers, started picking up these details the colour of curtains, the faded window boxes. Hed point them out and wed share a smile.
Dinner invitations followed. When I visited his immaculate flat, I marvelled at the light streaming through the big window. Once, I found an old photo album: his father, young, with exactly the same kind eyes, mending an enormous wall clock; little James beside him, breath held in awe.
He taught me the most important thing, James whispered, looking at that photo. Every complicated machine is just made up of simple parts. If something breaks, dont panic find the broken piece, and fix it.
The clock? I asked.
And life, he grinned.
We dropped our masks around each other, peeling back the outer layers to reach something soft beneath. I admitted I wrote poems I showed no-one. James, blushing, confessed hed once belonged to a student book club but grew out of it, or so I thought.
One bleak January evening, I came down with a lousy cold nothing serious, just the chills and a blocked nose. James showed up at my flat after work, arms full lemons, honey, herbal tea, and a new poetry collection from my favourite author.
I didnt know what would help, he stammered. So I brought anything that seemed useful for fixing the system.
I laughed, then to my surprise, cried grateful that someone finally saw past my forced cheerfulness to just where I needed help, and wasnt afraid of it.
Slowly, we stopped being that guy from the bus stop and the girl with the scarf. We became James, who knew I refused to drink tea from anything but my blue mug, and me, who realised that if James went quiet gazing out the window, it meant he was simply sorting out his thoughts, not angry.
We became each others sanctuary in the vast, complicated city a place to always return to; even, if necessary, at the cost of a missed bus.
A year passed. One evening, sixteen months after that first encounter at the stop, James grew awkward over dinner at our favourite pâtisserie.
Em, he began, staring at his hands. I wondered Ive got a question, but promise you wont answer straight away…
I set my spoon aside, wary.
Its about my gran, he said. She lives in this tiny village near the Yorkshire Dales. Every Christmas, she waits for me to visit. Real snow, countryside silence, the lot. Shes begged me to bring that girl from London I keep talking about. He glanced up, uncertain. I warn you, theres no spa, internet only outside by the gate, proper biting cold, gaggles of noisy geese… Of course, you can say no…
I couldnt help grinning. Geese, you say?
Very loud geese.
And proper deep snow?
Up to your knees. Squeaks underfoot, like old vinyl records.
And does your gran have a real, old-fashioned Aga?
The pride of the house, he replied, hope flickering in his eyes.
Then Im packing my bag, I declared, beaming. Give me a list. And a survival briefing especially for meeting the garden wildlife.
The Yorkshire winter turned out even better than Id dreamt. The air was as sweet as sherbet. Gran, Mrs. Edith Haywood, tiny and spry as a wren, instantly took me in: fed us pancakes with honey, lent me her massive sheepskin coat, and sent us off to the woods for a Christmas tree.
The table groaned with simple, glorious food. At midnight, under the chimes from the TV, we raised glasses of prosecco. After the toast, Gran winked and retired, claiming she needed a quick forty winks, leaving the two of us alone at the candlelit table.
The hush that followed was magical only interrupted by the soft pop from the logs in the stove and the glimmer of fairy lights on the tree. For a moment, the whole world felt held at bay by curtains of snow, leaving just the two of us inside, safe in our own small realm.
James rose, prodded the logs gently, then turned to me, hands warming his glass.
You know, he began, his voice rough with nerves, today, when we went out for the tree, and you bundled along in Grans coat, cheeks red with cold, laughing well, it clicked. Thats happiness for me now. Better than any city, any bridge, any project.
He dropped to one knee, produced a little velvet box from his jumper pocket, and took my hand his palm now warm and sure, despite a faint tremble.
Emily. The girl from the bus stop who opened up my world. Will you marry me? Build our future, with room for your creative mess, my plans and Grans pancakes and… just everything?
I looked at him, tears streaming down my face, but with a smile as wide as a sunrise. I saw pure certainty and devotion in his gaze just as he said, the foundation that holds a bridge firm.
Yes, I whispered. A word that felt like a promise and a relief all at once. Yes, James. Of course.
He slipped the ring on with shaky hands. It fit like it had always belonged there. As he swept me into a hug, the first New Years fireworks burst above the village, painting the frosted window with sudden colour. The lights reflected in our tears, our eyes now shared, both looking forward.
Inside, the little cottage was filled with a gentler light a happiness no longer fleeting, but as solid as the band on my finger, as strong and simple as the word yes.
Our story, which began with a cold autumn at a city bus stop, had brought us here to the firelit warmth of a winter fairy-tale. And whatever lay ahead, whatever bridges we had yet to cross or build together, we knew we would do it side by side.
Because the most vital connection of all had been made already. It thumped away, steady in two hearts that found each other at the perfect, improbable moment.
And all because, one chilly night, we were both simply late for the bus.
Lesson learnt: Sometimes, the important connections in life are made when you least expect them often, quietly, while youre caught between plans. You just have to be willing to wait for your moment, and not be afraid to miss the bus.
